An olive fire's a lovely thing; Somehow it makes me think of Spring As in my grate it over-spills With dancing flames like daffodils. They flirt and frolic, twist and twine, The brassy fire-irons wink and shine. . . . Leap gold, you flamelets! Laugh and sing: An olive fire's a lovely thing.
An olive fire's a household shrine: A crusty loaf, a jug of wine, An apple and a chunk of cheese - Oh I could be content with these. But if my curse of oil is there, To fry a fresh-caught fish, I swear I do not envy any king, As sitting by my hearth I sing: An olive fire's a lovely thing.
When old and worn, of life I tire, I'll sit before an olive fire, And watch the feather ash like snow As softly as a rose heart glow; The tawny roots will loose their hoard Of sunbeams centuries have stored, And flames like yellow chicken's cheep, Till in my heart Peace is so deep: With hands prayer-clasped I sleep . . . and sleep.